Tumbling Down the Rabbit Hole
by NajwaBarlaam
Summary: Hermione goes to Malfoy Manor to investigate some complaints. She could never have predicted what she would find there, or where it would lead her. (Unless she happened to read Harry Potter conspiracy theories on Tumblr).
1. July

_July_

Hermione straightened her robes, brushed a bit of lint off of one sleeve, and then straightened them again. This was not how she had envisioned spending her afternoon. She had hoped to cut out early and surprise Ron with a home-cooked meal. She seldom had time for that sort of thing. It seemed like every day her responsibilities in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement expanded. Not that she was complaining. She loved the faith they showed in her.

Unfortunately, sometimes that meant coming out to inconvenient locations to investigate complaints and tips.

She stared up the path, lined on either side by massive walls. Setting her shoulders, she started forward. It felt like walking a gauntlet, but she supposed that was the point. The Malfoys didn't want any more visitors than necessary.

She swallowed, mouth a little dry. Her sensible shoes thumped along the stone walkway as she tried to drive bad memories to the back of her mind. She didn't like to think about this place. And she didn't like to admit that she didn't like to think about it. Not very Gryffindor of her, being afraid of a silly little house.

She looked up at The Malfoy Manor. It was more of a silly massive house than a silly little house _._ It looked like something out of a fairy tale, but not in a good way. Something the wicked witch would live in.

Hermione almost smiled at the thought. She knew enough to know that witches weren't so very wicked after all. Well, not all of them anyway.

At the door, she took a breath, steeled herself, and rapped the door knocker three times, with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

Her hands were sweating.

She wiped them on her robes, not wanting Malfoy to notice her nerves. Bad enough to break out in a cold sweat just because . . . well, she supposed being tortured was a fairly valid reason to fear a place, really. But still. She'd rather he not see her influenced by it.

She swung the knocker three more times, and stepped back as the door eased open. Peering out from behind it was Draco Malfoy himself, looking nothing like she remembered him. Lean – gaunt, really – with bloodshot eyes and several days of scruff, he looked more like a tramp than a Malfoy.

"Granger."

He still sounded the same, apparently, with that irritating drawl she remembered from Hogwarts.

Hermione smiled her best professional smile. "Hello. We've had a number of . . . inquiries regarding activities at this location. May I come in?"

"You may not." He looked down his nose at her. Most people would find it difficult to look snobby and unkempt at the same time. Malfoy rose to the occasion.

Hermione smiled again. This was her I'm-sorry-but-actually-I-can smile. She'd gotten very good at it over the last two years. "Actually, if you'll examine this," she handed him the paperwork, giving her authority to search the premises, "I believe you'll see that I may, and indeed I shall."

As he studied the document, she pushed forward and into the house. Her fingers tapped on her thigh, just a twitch, just the slightest indication of her discomfort in the space. She stilled them immediately.

"Inquiries, you say?"

She nodded, expression carefully blank. "Yes. It seems a number of people are concerned about what goes on out here."

"What have they indicated goes on?"

"Suspicious activity." She stepped away, turning to examine the room. It would have seemed a great deal more natural if she hadn't paused mid-step, surprised at the realization that he was barefoot. She frowned at his appearance. Thin, linen trousers. An untucked shirt only partially buttoned. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of the Middle Ages, but not the Hollywood version. The version where people owned only one or two outfits and seldom bathed. She was rather surprised she couldn't smell him.

"What sort of suspicious activity?" If he'd noticed her assessment, he gave no indication of it.

"The sort that requires investigation." She turned another slow circle. "May I have a look around?"

"You've already demonstrated that you do not require my permission."

She inclined her head. "Shall we start at the bottom and work our way up, then?"

"If you prefer." He gestured for her to lead the way. "Do you have an estimate for how long this will take?"

"Are you in a rush?"

"I have an appointment."

"You're more than welcome to go."

"I'll stay, thank you."

"Well then." She took a beat at the top of the stairs, glanced over, noticed that his jaw was clenched, his forehead just a touch shiny. Was he sweating? She had chalked this visit up to general distrust – and general dislike – of the Malfoy family. Draco hadn't caused so much as a blip on the radar since the war, and his parents had been locked away all the while. But perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps he _was_ hiding something.

"They sent you in alone?" he asked. "Don't aurors usually operate in pairs?"

"I'm not an auror. I'm actually with the MLE patrol."

"That seems like rather a step down from an auror."

Hermione turned a cold look on him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sensitive, are we? I meant I wonder why you chose that over the more . . . prestigious department. I imagine either would have fallen all over themselves to recruit you."

Hermione turned away and continued down the steps. "We intervene earlier, have a larger emphasis on rehabilitation. Aurors hunt down people with no future but Azkaban."

"I see," he said, as she paused at the bottom step. "You would rather save people than punish them."

She met his eyes. "I would rather see them rehabilitated."

He inclined his head. "Admirable."

She hissed out a breath as she turned away, had to remind herself not to let him get under her skin. She knew he was mocking her, but the only acceptable response was impeccable professionalism.

With her first step into the cellar, she refocused on the task at hand. "May I ask why you have your cellar arranged as a dungeon?" She tapped on the bars of the door. "It seems rather . . . outdated."

His lips turned up in a humorless parody of a smile. "I simply haven't had the time to redecorate."

"I see." She walked a slow circuit of the room, noting an armchair, a side table with a pile of books strewn haphazardly on it, and a dark wood cabinet. "Do you spend much time down here?"

When she looked up, he was eyeing a clock on the wall. "Well, the air is rather lovely," he responded, after a beat.

She held his gaze, making it perfectly clear she didn't buy the deflection. "I'm going to have a look at the contents of this cabinet now."

A twitch. His mouth, his eyes. Maybe even his arm. It was so fast she couldn't cement it clearly in her mind. But she was sure he had reacted. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked sweetly.

He said nothing, but his gaze had grown colder. She wondered if perhaps she _had_ been foolish to come here alone. She had claimed she could handle it by herself because it was just a routine inspection. Suddenly she had to wonder if it was her own foolish pride, demanding that she show him she needed no one to protect her from this place, this family.

"Would you mind standing over there?" she said, pointing to a spot where she would have a good line of sight while searching the cabinet.

He complied without comment, waiting where she put him, hands folded, face neutral.

She opened the cabinet, found several bottles of the exact same potion, each marked only with a date.

"Would you like to tell me what this is, or shall I have it examined down at our offices?"

"You don't recognize it?" he said, a bite creeping into his voice. Then, to her surprise, he let out a slow breath. And glanced at the clock.

"It's unmarked."

"Surely you don't need labels to identify a potion."

She narrowed her eyes at him, watched his gaze flick back to the clock. "You're very concerned about your appointment."

"I am more concerned about you being gone before the allotted time."

"Do you think you'll be able to prevent me finding damning evidence if you are here?"

"I thought you were more interested in rehabilitation than punishment." Another glance at the clock.

"To be honest, Draco, I thought this was going to be routine. But you are acting more than a little suspicious."

"Come back in a few days and I promise I will be the soul of hospitality."

"Nice try." She took a bottle, slid it into her bag, and turned a slow circle. "I think we're done down here. Let's head upstairs."

He didn't budge.

"Draco."

He was staring hard at her, as if he could drive her away by mere force of will.

"Unfortunately, if you are going to remain on the premises during the search, you will also need to remain in my sight at all times. Joining me upstairs is _not_ optional."

He frowned at the clock, watched the minute hand tick over, and let out a long, defeated sigh. Then he flopped into the arm chair, leaned over, grabbed a bottle of potion, and gulped it down in a single move.

She blinked at him.

"You would have found out when you tested it, anyway," he said, closing his eyes.

"Found out what."

"What's the potion, Granger?" His eyes were still closed, his breathing deep and even. "You're too smart to need my help. Put the pieces together."

She pursed her lips. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the bottle, studied the contents, looked at Draco, looked at the clock.

"Come back in a few days," she repeated.

"I think she's almost got it." Draco appeared to be speaking to himself.

"Is this Wolfsbane?" Her voice rose unnaturally high on the last word.

"There's the overachiever I knew and loathed."

"You're . . . when did you . . ."

"Is that important? I thought you championed privacy for _my_ _kind_." The disgust on the final two words was palpable.

"None of the complaints suggested anything of this sort . . ."

"You know the complaints have no legitimate foundation. Nothing beyond my past, at any rate, which is well-known and well-documented."

"You're saying that this is discrimination because you're a . . ."

"Of course not. No one knows what I am." When she could only gape at him, he sent her a cool look. "I never thought I would see the day Hermione Granger was rendered speechless. And to think that I was the one to manage it."

"A werewolf," she said, with more than a bit of bite.

"A werewolf," he repeated, and the self-loathing in his tone made her regret her loss of temper.

He looked at the clock. "You should go. The moon will be rising in 25 minutes."

"You took Wolfsbane. I'm in no danger."

"Assuming all goes well."

"Call me optimistic."

He frowned. "You've already found my dirty little secret, Granger. I have nothing left to hide. Is it really worth putting yourself at risk, just to search my home for contraband you won't find?"

She tilted her head to the side, considering him. "I think I will finish the search, actually. I take my responsibilities rather seriously."

"Naturally."

"And among them is a duty to report any werewolves who are not taking proper precautions during the full moon."

This time it wasn't just a twitch. His whole body shifted forward, nearly a lunge, while his eyes flashed angrily. "I take proper precautions. Why do you think I've kept the dungeon?"

"Having someone . . . unafflicted nearby, in case anything goes wrong, is strongly recommended by the Ministry."

"That's the most idiotic thing I have ever heard. Why would they recommend that we expose others to our curse?"

"Unafflicted and prepared." She moved calmly toward the stairs, pulled the door shut, and turned the key in the lock. She studied it for a long moment, trying to decide if she should take it out of the lock or not. "How do you lock yourself in?"

"I throw the key beyond my reach, and I lock my wand away in a secure compartment in here. One that . . . it . . . doesn't have the manual dexterity to open. When I," he paused, looking for the right words, "return to myself, I summon the key."

"I see." She pocketed the key and sat down on the stairs, laying her wand across her knees.

"You're going to watch?" His voice was low. Unhappy, but unsurprised.

She said nothing.

He laughed, a hollow sound. "So few people get to witness such poetic justice. How could you do anything else?"

"I simply want to ensure your safeguards are sufficient."

He laughed again, the same horrible sound. She never would have thought she could prefer his mocking chortle, but this empty laugh, laced through with pain and anger she couldn't comprehend, was somehow worse. "I'm sure," he murmured.

"I would never wish this on anyone."

He met her eyes across the room, just for a moment. "No. I don't imagine you would." His breathing was faster now. She couldn't tell if it was anger, nerves, or the beginning of the shift. "You understand that even with the potion, having a person nearby . . ."

"I understand the risks."

"Keep your wand in your hand."

"I know what I'm doing."

"You're a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors are nearly always stupid when they think they're being brave."

"It's nice to know you've left those old house divisions by the wayside."

She thought he might have snorted at that, but couldn't be sure. His eyes were closed now, his breathing deep and even. The effort it took to remain calm was evident.

He didn't talk again. His breath became more labored, his face taut. He was so quiet, Hermione could hear her own heart beating. Then he doubled over, fell to his knees in front of the chair, curled in on himself. She waited for the screaming to start, but it never did. Only the rasp of desperate lungs dragging in air filled the room.

Her mind couldn't process the change she was witnessing, couldn't make sense of the half-man half-werewolf shifting in front of her. It focused on the minor details, his clothes splitting open and dropping to the ground, shredded. His claws digging into the cellar floor, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

What looked up at her from across the room was no longer the boy she'd gone to school with. Crouched low, fur so pale it was nearly white, stood a werewolf. She was surprised to find that he had the same half-starved look that Lupin had once had when he shifted.

"Draco?"

Light grey eyes fixed on her as it paced forward. She could hear a rumble in his chest, which built, became a growl, low and dangerous. She held her ground. He had taken the potion. He should be in control. Showing fear would only strain that control.

The werewolf tilted his head to one side and then the other, studying her. Then he turned, padded in a circle, and laid down next to the arm chair.

She must have watched him for an hour, but he didn't move once. Eventually, she slipped up the stairs and out the door. She needed to let Ron know she would be working late. And she wanted to finish her search of the house.

* * *

She was at her post again when the moon set, and he melted back into the familiar form of Draco Malfoy. Albeit with fewer clothes.

He slept through it, curled on the floor in the same position, one suddenly made awkward by his human dimensions. When he woke an hour later, she averted her gaze.

"Get an eye-full, did you Granger?"

She met his look, unblushing. "In more ways than one." She paused. "You don't have a dark mark."

"No."

"I'm rather surprised."

He knelt by his clothes. "Why?" Realizing the shredded rags were useless, he frowned over at her.

"I was under the impression you had joined the Death Eaters in sixth year."

"You were mistaken."

"Was I?"

"Yes." Apparently deciding modesty was overrated, he strolled calmly to his chair, climbed on top of it, set his fingers carefully against a stone in the ceiling, twisted twice in one direction, three times in the other, and pushed at a thirty degree angle. Another bit of stone dropped down, revealing a hidden compartment.

"Suddenly I wonder if my search was thorough enough."

"Did you find anything?" he asked, casually, as he grabbed his wand.

"I did not. I rather thought I would find at least a little something."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that disappointment I detect?" He muttered a quick spell and had his clothes in one piece again.

"Surprise," she corrected.

"I scoured the house after I . . . came into possession of it."

"Ah. That would certainly explain it."

"The hiding places as well," he said, dragging on his pants. Apparently he was neither a boxers nor a briefs man. He caught up his shirt, paused, glanced over at her. "Though I'm not going to tell you where those are."

"Here and I thought we were being so open."

He frowned at her.

She sighed. "My official determination is that the complaints are unfounded, and based on my search of the premises and interview with the resident, no illegal activity has taken place. My recommendation will be to close the matter entirely."

"And as to my . . . condition?" he asked, buttoning his shirt.

"As you pointed out, I campaigned against registration. As long as you're taking all necessary precautions, I see no reason to disclose your status."

"I see."

She slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and let the door swing open. "I can show myself out."

But he followed her up the steps and to the front door, which he opened in an odd flash of civility.

She stepped outside and - to his obvious surprise - offered her hand.

"I'll see you next month," she said.

He went still. "Pardon me?"

"You don't need my pardon. Not for being a werewolf, at any rate. But you do need a capable witch or wizard to ensure nothing goes wrong. Tonight was the last night of this month's cycle. I'll see you for the next full moon."

"That isn't necessary." He still had her hand. His grip had turned harsh.

"I believe it is." She studied his face. "Are you trying to hurt me?"

He released her immediately and stepped away. "I am perfectly capable of-"

"You cannot be a responsible, capable wizard while in werewolf form. And, from what I can tell, you have almost zero contact with anyone who would fit that description. With anyone at all, really." She cocked her head. "When was the last time you left the house, Draco?"

He said nothing.

"Well, that's your business, I suppose. Keeping people safe is mine. I'll be here next month to do exactly that."

She left before he had a chance to argue.


	2. August

_August_

* * *

"I just don't understand why you would volunteer for it," Ron said, for the third time that night.

"You know how I feel about werewolves, Ron. They need support, just like anyone else."

"They have family for that. Friends."

"Not all of them."

"So you're going to just sacrifice three days each month to some random werewolf?" He flung himself down on her couch. "And you won't even tell me who it is."

"Of course I won't. You know how I feel about that as well."

"I don't think registration is the worst idea in the world."

She glared at him.

"What? I don't. Not every werewolf is Remus, Hermione. They're dangerous. I don't know what mad muggle theories you have but-"

"I don't have mad muggle theories. I've done the research, thank you, and if they're taking the Wolfsbane potion, they have every right to live their lives unmolested and without all the prejudice that comes from people knowing what they are."

"What they are is dangerous, Hermione. And how can we know if they're taking the potion if we don't know which ones are werewolves." He gestured at her with his firewhiskey. "I've got you there, don't I?"

"People will be a lot more likely to seek out help if they aren't going to be stigmatized for it."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Have your little charity project. Just ignore your poor boyfriend, who never gets to see you, because you're always working."

She leaned down to kiss him. "You're seeing me right now, aren't you?"

"True. And wasting time arguing." And with that, he dragged her down to the couch with him. There was no more arguing that night.

* * *

She knocked on the door at precisely one hour before the sun was due to set, annoyed that her palms were damp. This place had no power over her. She was beyond it.

Malfoy swung the door open. "You're here." He did not sound pleased with the thought.

"As promised."

He looked at the small overnight bag she carried and sighed. "Would you like anything to drink? Mead, butterbeer, firewhiskey?"

"No, thank you."

"As you like." He turned away. "Let's get this over with."

She raised her eyebrows. "I thought there was still quite a decent amount of time."

Shrugging, he led her down the stairs toward the cellar. "No sense lingering. You can lock me in and then search for hidden compartments to your heart's content."

"That isn't why I'm here, you know."

He stepped into the dungeon, shut the door between them, reached through the bars, turned the key, and then held it out to her.

"You are welcome to whatever food or drink you can find. I cannot vouch for its freshness."

He didn't want her to watch this time. That much was clear. She nodded slowly and went back upstairs.

She knew her way around now, after last time, and her feet did not hesitate to lead her to the only redeeming room in the house: the library.

It reminded her of _Beauty and the Beast_. She'd always wanted the beast's library, but she rolled her eyes at the analogy. It fit both based on him being a werewolf and his beastly behavior in school. But it felt cheap, and she mentally chastised herself for even thinking it. Instead, she focused on the room.

The ceilings were high and arched, with chandeliers burning low. It wasn't optimal for reading, but it did create a restful atmosphere. If he had any sense, he'd add a few skylights.

She looked up at the ornate detail work on the ceiling. Perhaps not. It would look a bit odd, adding modern skylights to such old architecture.

The bookshelves along the perimeter rose fully six meters high. They would have been impractical were it not for the ladder, mounted on a rail that circled the whole room. The inner shelves were not quite so high, but they were intelligently placed, creating small, discrete spaces. A chair here, a desk there.

None of the furniture was particularly comfortable, unfortunately. It tended toward the antique, with limited cushioning and lots of straight backs.

But the room was filled with books, and Hermione couldn't be uncomfortable around books. Even if far too many titles in the library made her skin crawl.

She scanned the shelf nearest her until she found one she could tolerate. Pulling it down, she settled into one of the more comfortable chairs. She lasted all of ten minutes before she took the book down to the living room, where she could curl up on the couch and fall asleep reading.

Which is exactly what she did. She slept straight through the night, and the morning, too. When she woke, it was well past ten and she could smell bacon. Confused, she stumbled toward the kitchen, thinking that if there was a house-elf, she would be most displeased.

Instead it was Malfoy at the stove.

"What are you doing?"

He raised one cool eyebrow. "Cooking." He slid the bacon onto a plate. "I think perhaps your wits have dulled since leaving school."

"Charming as ever, I see." She scrubbed at her eyes. "How did you get out?"

He gave her another look. "I am a wizard."

"Yes, I know but -"

"I have a wand."

"Yes, but I have the key."

Expression very serious, he stepped closer. "Wands help a wizard do magic," he began, as if talking to a four-year-old.

"I assumed the lock was spelled not to open with _alohomora_."

" _It_ can't do magic."

She pressed her lips together. It. _It_ can't do magic. She didn't think he had really dealt with the emotional impact of his condition.

He held the plate out to her. "Bacon?"

She opened her mouth to say no, but it actually looked quite good, and smelled even better. "What the hell. One for the road," she said, as she snatched a slice of bacon off the plate. "I'll see you tonight."

He followed at her heels, plate still in hand. "I thought you would have realized by now it wasn't necessary." He sounded mildly panicked, and she couldn't help the flash of pleasure that coursed through her. Odd that helping Malfoy also doubled as getting back at him.

Grabbing another slice of bacon, she grinned cheekily. "You thought wrong."

* * *

 _A/N_

 _I know. It's unforgivably short, and nothing really happens. But I wanted to get something up tonight, and this was all I had time for._

 _Also, fair warning, this fic is set in roughly present day (but only four years after the war). I just added a whole explanation to my profile of why I tend to do this, but if you aren't interested in reading that, just know that it's not an accident. It's a conscious choice, and there are reasons for it._


	3. September

_September_

Hermione glanced at her watch before knocking. She was there in plenty of time, but still felt as if she was running late.

He opened the door, looking resigned. "Hello again."

"Hi," she said, handing him the coat he gestured to. "How was your month?"

"Entirely average," he said, hanging it up in the closet near the entry. "And yours?"

"Quite nice. Ron and I finally took the plunge and got a flat together."

"I do hope you got excellent renters insurance."

She frowned at him, but he'd already started walking away.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

He glanced back at her. "What do you do, all weekend, while I'm downstairs?"

"I snoop through your house. Take pictures of your unmentionables, that sort of thing."

A lopsided smile formed, like his mouth was out of practice with the expression. "Naturally."

"I spend a lot of time in the library, actually."

"Somehow I'm both shocked and not at all surprised to hear that."

She laughed. "What part of me seeking out a library is surprising?"

"It isn't a particularly . . . tolerant collection."

"No, that it is not. Some of those books are truly the stuff of nightmares."

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking tired. "I've been meaning to sort through it. It was next on the list, after I got rid of all the dark artifacts. But that particular task turned out to be more exhausting than I expected." He wandered toward the kitchen. "You're welcome to take it off my hands, if you find yourself with a burning desire to _organize_ in the middle of the night."

"What a charming offer, but I think I'd probably rather not sort through your prejudiced book collection."

He got himself a glass of water. "Are you sure you don't want anything? Water? Milk? I think I even have juice today.'

"No. Thank you, though. I appreciate it."

"As you like." He drank the entire glass down in a matter of seconds, then let out a long breath. "Once more unto the breach, I suppose."

Hermione paused on the threshold to the living room. "Did you just quote Shakespeare?"

"I did. I found it hidden away among some of my mother's things. It was one of the great shocks of my life," he said, continuing down toward the basement.

"Your mother read Shakespeare?"

"It certainly appears that way."

They were on the stairs now, descending into the cellar. Hermione preferred to think of it as a cellar, rather than a dungeon. Though it felt more like the latter. "Well. That's . . . unexpected."

She pulled the door shut, turned the key, and locked him in.

"Do you like the library?" he asked. "Speaking of the room, not the books themselves."

Halfway up the stairs, she looked back. "I do. It's . . . creepier than I'd like. A bit dark. And I have no idea what would possess someone to furnish a room exclusively with uncomfortable seating, but . . . It's quite impressive architecture. And I like the layout. Plus, not all the books are bad."

He only nodded in response. After a moment, she continued up the stairs. She already knew which book she would read.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _Hella short. I know. It's just for spacing reasons (seriously, why won't they let me add more space between paragraphs!)._


	4. November

_November_

"Do you want eggs?" she called out, as Draco padded into the room, looking exhausted.

"Does Weasley not mind you spending so much time here?"

She cracked three more eggs into the bowl and mixed them up. "I'm going to make you some. You look particularly bad this month."

"Are you avoiding the question?"

"About Ron? No. He's a proponent of registration, but recognizes that I have a very different perspective."

He walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a glass. "Orange juice?"

"Yes, please."

He took a second one as well, and set about pouring them each a glass. "Why is that?" he asked. "Weren't you all close to Professor Lupin?"

Hermione shrugged. "I suppose it makes a difference if you understand what it feels like to be the thing they want to register."

He put the juice away in silence. Then he brought her a glass, held it out to her. "I don't think anyone would claim muggleborns are inherently dangerous, the way werewolves are."

She met his eyes. "Voldermort would."

"Lucky he's dead then."

"It wasn't luck," she murmured, as she returned to scrambling the eggs.

"No," he said, taking a seat at the table. "I don't suppose it was."

After a moment, she felt the need to fill the silence. "I'm not adding anything to the eggs. No vegetables, no spices. This is far from gourmet."

"If it is food," he drawled, "and I did not have to prepare it myself, I assure you I will be most appreciative."

"You might grate some cheese."

He flicked his wand, and the grater and the cheese set about accomplishing the task themselves. Hermione shook her head. "I'll never get used to that."

"Weasley doesn't cook?"

"Ron?" She laughed. "No. Bringing home leftovers from the pub is as close as he gets."

"Shame," Draco said, leaning back in his chair as she set a plate in front of him. "It's rather nice being waited on."

She elbowed him in the side hard enough to make him wince, but he still seemed quite pleased with himself.

"That's the last time I cook you anything," she said, shaking a finger at him.

"Of course."

She tucked into her food. Good, but not gourmet. "Do you mind if I leave a few things here for next time. They're muggle electronics. I really only use them out here. I can't figure out why they work here and not at my new flat, but they're always acting strange. It drives Ron crazy, so . . . "

"Better they drive me crazy?" he asked, one eyebrow rising.

"They don't do it here!" She tapped her fork on her bottom lip. "Perhaps because in werewolf form you can't do magic. In which case, they may behave oddly the rest of the time." She frowned. "Never mind. I should probably just get rid of them anyway."

"You can leave them. If they bother me, you can be sure you'll hear about it."

Elbow propped on the table, she rested her chin on her palm, uncertain. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright." She smiled, a little embarrassed. "I quite like having them here."

"Entertainment for the long, boring, entirely unnecessary nights."

"No. Well, yes. But it's more that I seldom get to enjoy muggle entertainment these days. Do you know, I miss it more than I expected." She shook her head. "And I've been meaning to say, I appreciate the addition of the sofa in the library. It's quite comfortable."

"I thought it suited."

"It does," she agreed. "Anyway, when you're done eating," she nodded toward the food he'd barely touched, "I'll show you what they are. That way you know what to throw out the window if they start malfunctioning."


	5. December

_December_

She hesitated at the door, looking down at the pamphlets. He disliked having her there at the full moons. He would hate the idea of her showing up unannounced between full moons. And he was almost certainly unwilling to take advantage of any new resources she brought him.

But the man was skin and bones. He barely ate, he had no friends, and his only family was in Azkaban. She was genuinely concerned that if he didn't change something soon, he'd simply wither away. Or – and, if she was honest, this was the greater concern – end things deliberately.

With Christmas approaching, it had been on her mind a great deal.

Coming to a decision, she rapped on the door.

No answer.

She used the door knocker.

No answer.

Twice more, she knocked.

She didn't deliberately decide to get out her wand, but once it was in her hand, she used it to unlock the door without a moment's hesitation. Swiftly, she slipped into the house, wand at the ready. The house looked as it always did, except she'd never had Draco fail to answer the door.

An image flashed into her mind, what she feared she would see at the top of the stairs.

What if she was already too late?

She raced up the stairs, wand in hand, mentally preparing herself for the worst. What healing spells did she know? If she caught him in the act, would there be a fight?

At the stop of the steps, she froze. She tilted her head to one side, ears searching out the sound drifting toward her, trying to place it out of context. Confused, she followed it. What she found in the library stopped her in her tracks.

She needn't have been worried, apparently. Alive and well, Draco Malfoy had her laptop open, music playing. And not just any music.

Taylor Swift.

She could have died happily having witnessed that alone, but the gods were good to her on this particular day. They didn't just send her the image of Draco Malfoy listening to Taylor swift. They sent him dancing.

Draco Pureblood Malfoy, was dancing to Shake It Off. And boy was he dancing.

A laugh caught in her throat, was swallowed down. It tried to bubble up again, but she mastered it. The grin, however, could not be contained.

He was _bouncing_.

Draco Malfoy did not bounce.

Except that he did. He _was_. Right at that exact moment. She was witnessing it.

And then he was flinging his head from side to side, singing along – singing along! – with the music, overgrown hair flopping around.

A sound escaped Hermione. She tried to trap it with her hand, to prevent its departure, but was too late. Draco froze, went stock still. Around him, Taylor Swift kept singing. _Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play. . ._

Slowly, like the victim in a horror movie, he turned to face her. His arm shot out, wandless, and the laptop exploded.

Hermione jerked back, smile slipping. "Well, _that_ was unnecessary."

His expression utterly neutral, he bowed. "I will compensate you for the loss," he said, all formality.

She was too busy trying to arrange her face to respond.

He was silent for several seconds. When he spoke, it was clear he had no intention of acknowledging what she'd seen. "Unless my sense of time has abandoned me entirely, it is more than two weeks until the full moon."

"I wanted to . . ." She paused, unable to keep the grin from returning. "I see you enjoyed the laptop."

He stared at her, silent. She could actually count the number of times he blinked. Five. And not in quick succession.

"Would you like something to drink?"

A giggle rose up, half-escaped as she spoke. "No, thank you."

His frown darkened.

"I came to drop these off," she said, setting the pamphlets on a table. "Please don't explode them." She pressed her lips together, trying to fight the smile down. She was entirely unsuccessful.

"There's no shame in liking Tay Tay," she added, giving in to her amusement.

He tilted his head forward, ever so slightly, the better to look down his nose at her. "Who?"

"Tay Tay. T-Swizzle. TS." She grinned. "Taylor Swift," she said, nodding toward the computer. "We all like her."

Deciding staying would only make matters worse, she tapped on the pamphlets. "Read these over. Think about it."

* * *

 _A/N_

 _I did warn you :-)_

 _Hope you don't mind too much . . ._

 _-Naj_


	6. Two Weeks Later

_Two weeks later_

New laptop securely in her bag, Hermione knocked on the door. He was frowning when he opened it. Not past the last encounter, she decided.

"Hello," she said, stepping in. "How were your holidays?"

"They were days, like any other." He closed the door. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you." She tapped her bag. "I brought a new laptop."

His frown deepened.

"Not that you have to use it, if you don't want to." She smiled, having decided that the best approach was to show she was laughing with him, instead of at him.

The trick would be convincing him to laugh. It is, after all, very difficult to laugh _with_ someone who is not actually laughing.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." He turned away, starting toward the cellar.

"We have some time," Hermione called, walking toward the upstairs instead. "I thought we could talk about those pamphlets I dropped off."

He turned and glared at her over his shoulder. "They were for werewolves. To talk to other werewolves. About being werewolves."

"Yes." She tried a bright smile. "It's called a 'support group'."

"I'm quite alright, thank you. I am well-acquainted with the effects of this condition."

"It's not about learning about the condition. It's about learning how to cope with it. About meeting people who understand what you're going through."

"It is unnecessary," he said, and disappeared down the stairs to the cellar.

Sighing, Hermione followed him, locked him in, and then retreated to his library, which had long since become her sanctuary in Malfoy Manor.

* * *

The next morning, when he appeared in the kitchen, she had music playing. Taylor Swift. He glared at her. "I do not appreciate your mockery."

Eyebrows raised, she stared him down. "Mockery? I'll have you know this is _my_ music. You can tell, because it's on my laptop. And I quite like it, thank you." She slammed a plate down on the table, gesturing impatiently for him to eat.

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you pretending to be angry?"

With her back to him, she swore quietly to herself. "Eat your food."

"I thought you weren't going to cook for me."

She flopped into the chair across from him, arms folded. "Why do you insist on being difficult?"

He slanted a look at the laptop. _Welcome to New York_ was playing. "Who is she?"

"A muggle singer."

"The songs are very . . ."

"Catchy?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"I like them. They're fun to sing along with in the car."

He took a bite, chewed it thoughtfully. "I turned it on by accident, the first time."

Her smile flickered. "I'm sure."

His eyes snapped to hers, and she laughed. "Stop being so defensive. I'm only teasing."

He glanced at the laptop again. "The picture . . . on there. Is it her?"

Uncertain, Hermione retrieved the laptop and opened it at the table, pointing to the album cover. "This?" At his nod, she continued. "Yes. That's her."

"Is she . . . that jacket looks like . . . has she been put in a ward, like they have in St. Mungo's, for the . . ."

Her eyes widened. "No!" She shook her head. "No."

"Oh." He took another bite. "Good."

Hermione smiled.

"Why don't they show her face?" he asked, after another moment.

"I don't know. I've never really thought about it." She paused. "If you want to see her, I can get . . ." She strolled out to the other room, grabbed her mobile phone, and began searching for a video. "Here," she said, handing it to him.

He watched the _Blank Space_ video in silence. Then he sent her a baffled look. "So she is mad, then?"

Laughing, she shook her head. "It's a music video. If I were going to guess, I'd say that whole song is tongue-in-cheek, a response to other people's perception of her. The video is the same."

"Huh," he said, and took another bite.

"If you had the internet, you could explore all this for yourself."

"What's 'internet'?" he asked, speaking with his mouth full. Embarrassment followed quickly. "Pardon me. That was –"

"You can't really think I'm going to judge you for talking with you food in your mouth?" She patted his hand, and rose to get some juice. "Do you want anything?"

"No, thank you."

As she poured her juice, she began forming a whole new plan for how to help Draco Malfoy.


	7. February

_February_

"Morning," Ron mumbled, bleary-eyed.

It was not, strictly speaking, actually morning anymore, but Hermione decided not to quibble over silly little details like that. "Drinks with George?" she asked, watching him gulp down a glass of water. And then another.

"Yes," he said, dropping into a chair and resting his head on the table. "Blimey. My brain feels like it's been played as a drum all night long." He opened one eye and tried what she was sure he thought was a charming look. "One of those amazing hangover cures you make would do wonders for it, I'm sure."

She rolled her eyes, but went to get one. She kept a supply on hand. Which he knew. He could have easily swung by the bathroom on the way to the kitchen, but it wasn't worth arguing about.

"How is George?" she asked, as she handed him the potion.

"You are a goddess, Hermione." He downed it in one, and then made a face. "If only you could make it taste a bit more palatable." She probably could have, but she decided to forbear telling him. He'd think it was cruel to make it taste bad on purpose. She thought they both would have been better off if she'd never made the stupid cure in the first place.

"George?" she prompted.

He shrugged. "Fine. Normal."

"Normal for George isn't fine, Ron. Not these days. Have you talked to him about counseling yet?"

He rolled his eyes, and she had to stop herself kicking him under the table. "George doesn't need muggle doctors picking around in his brain."

"They aren't doctors-"

He snorted. "Good. They'd probably cut his head open and stitch it back together with a needle and thread."

"They're counselors," she said, as though he hadn't interrupted, "and they're trained to help people deal with trauma and loss. I think it could really help him."

"He's fine."

"He's not fine! It's been four years, and he's still drunk every night. Half the days too, I expect."

"He lost his twin! You don't understand. They did everything together. They might as well have been one person."

"I do understand that, Ron," she said quietly. "It's why I think he could benefit from having someone to talk to about it."

"He's got loads of people to talk to. We talked last night."

"Really?" She crossed her arms. "About what?"

"Life. Work. Things."

"Fred?"

Ron glared at her.

"George isn't the only one who could use some counseling, Ron."

"Merlin's bloody left tit. It's too early for this bollocks. We should have a rule that you're not allowed to nag me about mad muggle rubbish until at least noon."

"It's 1:00 pm."

"On a Saturday." He shoved away from the table. "I'm going back to bed."

* * *

Hermione left ten minutes later. She had a whole list of items she needed to get done, so she shoved the argument to the back of her mind. Or tried to, at any rate. For some reason, it simply wouldn't stay put.

" _Mad muggle rubbish,"_ she muttered to herself.

She'd really thought it would get better when they moved in together. Now she couldn't fathom how she'd convinced herself of that. It didn't fix what was wrong. It only forced them to confront it more often.

" _Picking at his brain_ ," she repeated in a poor imitation. "The idiot probably thinks they actually tug out stray thoughts with a pair of forceps."

Before she knew it, she was at Malfoy Manor, storming up the walk and banging on the door to demand entrance.

Malfoy appeared, looking baffled. She nearly took a swing at him.

"Good morning."

"It's not bloody morning," she snapped, shoving passed him.

"No, I suppose it isn't. Do come in." He closed the door behind them. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes. Firewhiskey. The whole bloody bottle."

He blinked, clearly surprised by the answer, but – bless him – simply turned and walked upstairs. "I suppose you'd rather sit in the library?"

"Yes." She bit out. Then, remembering herself, added, "Thank you."

He retrieved a bottle of firewhiskey and two glasses, which he set at the little table by the window, a recent addition that she assumed was for her benefit more than anything. She took a deep, calming breath.

He poured her a glass, set it in front of her, and then poured himself one as well.

When he spoke, it was careful. "I feel reasonably certain – unusually certain, given our history – that your . . . mood has little to do with me."

She threw back the whiskey and set the empty glass down. Something close to a smile ghosted around the edges of his mouth as he poured her another.

"No. My _mood_ has nothing to do with you."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"No."

He inclined his head.

"Have you bothered to even look at the pamphlets I dropped off?" she snapped. His eyebrows went up, but he said nothing. "Or did you content yourself with the idea that they were more ' _mad muggle rubbish'_ and leave it at that?"

He turned his glass once, studying the whiskey in it. Then he took a slow sip. "'Mad muggle rubbish' does sound like something I might have said once . . . but as most of my recent exposure to anything muggle has revolved around the lovely _Taylor_ _Swift_ ," he said the name as though it was a foreign phrase, one he had to be careful to pronounce correctly, "I am at a loss as to where this frustration comes from."

"Did you look at them?"

"I did."

"And?"

"It did not seem like something I would be comfortable with."

"Ugh." She polished off the second glass of whiskey. "It's not about comfortable. It's about healing. You have to face what hurts if you want to be able to fix it."

"I see."

He looked at her glass, looked at the bottle, looked at her. "Though my manners dictate otherwise, I am hesitant to pour you another one."

"That's fine." She shoved the glass away from herself.

"Would you like something else? Mead? Butterbeer? Perhaps water?"

She frowned at him. "Why don't you want to fix it?"

"Fix what?"

"All of it. All the damage the war caused."

"I believe we would all fix that if we could, but I've found that it's rather difficult to change the past, and those avenues available to us as wizards would wreak havoc if actually used."

"Not the war. The pain from it. The loss. The trauma."

"You believe you can fix all that?"

"No. Not me, no. And not anyone, not completely. But they can help."

"Who? The werewolf support groups?"

"Maybe. Or counselors in general. They're literally trained to help you sort through all of the emotional damage. I can't understand why people won't consider it. Is it just because they're muggles?"

"Did you go to these _counselors_?"

"Yes." She paused. "I would take some water, actually."

He stepped out, returned a few moments later with a pitcher of water and two glasses.

"I had a lot of trouble sleeping, right after the war." She spoke as he poured the water, slid it over to her. "Nightmares, insomnia, that sort of thing. I couldn't study, partly because I was tired, but also just . . ." She took a sip. "It was almost as though I couldn't bring myself to care. Me, Hermione Granger, unconcerned about school." She took a long drink. "My parents suggested counseling."

"Did it help?"

"Yes." She paused. "Though, to be fair, it gets worse before it gets better."

"I suppose you have to confront your demons to vanquish them."

"Exactly!"

"And Weasley has been uncooperative?"

She frowned at him. "I never mentioned Ron."

"I am not actually an idiot, Hermione."

She sighed. "He doesn't think very highly of muggle doctors. Or muggles in general, really."

He didn't bother to hide his surprise. "I was under the impression the Weasleys were quite pro-muggle."

"They're very pro-muggle when it comes to not wanting them harmed. But, with the exception of Mr. Weasley – and honestly he may be half the problem, since he views them with a sort of . . . childish delight . . ." She trailed off, pondering the idea.

"With the exception of Mr. Weasley . . . " he prompted.

"Oh, I just don't think they think much of them. They don't want them hurt, but they have no interest in learning about them, or spending time with them, or doing anything the way they do it." She paused. "You shouldn't repeat that to anyone."

"Well, I do have quite a string of visitors coming to my home every day. Why, just this morning a witch tried to break down my door."

She rested her chin on her hand, staring at him seriously. "I think I would like another whiskey after all."

He refilled her glass without comment.

"What exactly would this _counseling_ consist of?" he asked, after a moment.

"Talking," she said, taking a small sip – and making sure he noticed it was only a sip. He smiled faintly in amusement and waited for her to continue. "There's something freeing in being able to talk to someone who is a stranger, a professional. Someone who has no horse in the race, so to speak, except your own well-being."

"I think a muggle would find it rather odd if I told them about my experiences with a mutilated, soulless, deranged murderer and his sadistic band of followers. Even leaving off the parts about magic, I suspect it would raise some alarms."

"Yes, well, it helps to have a cover story." She took another sip. "For me, well, I talked about being kidnapped and tortured." His eyes clouded over, but he didn't look away. "And then I just claimed that I managed to escape, and they never caught the people responsible."

"I see."

"And, well, I honestly think I might have talked more about Ron leaving than –"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Let's also not repeat that."

He cleared his throat. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but it's quite well known that you two have a . . . turbulent relationship. It makes the Daily Prophet rather regularly."

She took a sip. Looked away. "Yes, well. All the same."

"You weren't talking about that, were you?"

"And moving on . . ."

"As you like."

They were both silent for a moment. Then he started to speak at the same time she rushed to explain.

"It wasn't his fault, really."

He fell silent, whatever he had been about to say fallen by the wayside.

"We had the necklace," she continued. "We took turns wearing it, and it had a bit of Voldemort's soul in it, trying to protect itself."

"Ah."

She stared into her glass. "He thought there was something going on between me and Harry."

"I _always_ thought that."

She rolled her eyes. "I've never understood why people always assumed-"

"That you would choose the hero over the sidekick?"

"Ron wasn't a sidekick."

"Yes, he was. That doesn't negate his contributions. It simply acknowledges that the weight of it all, the responsibility, the leadership, all of that fell to Potter."

"That doesn't make Ron less of a hero. Or any of the people who fought. Harry couldn't have done it alone."

"No. He could not have. But, if my understanding of events is accurate, it seems that no one could have done it without Potter. However brave, or heroic, or well-intentioned they were."

"Well. I still don't see why that means I should have dated him."

He smiled, just a little. "No. I imagine there were any number of boys from our year who kicked themselves when they realized that."

At her confused look, he laughed, a full, happy sound.

"Naturally you wouldn't have noticed, but after the Yule Ball, I suspect you were the most sought after girl in our year. Perhaps in the whole school."

"I was not the least bit sought after, thank you very much."

"Forgive me. I misspoke. Dreamed of. I suspect nearly everyone assumed you were for Potter and that, not being 'The Chosen One', they had little chance with you."

"Well, that's insulting on several levels."

Another laugh flickered around the edges of his eyes, trying to escape. "Yes. Indeed. Do look at what was quite obviously a compliment and see an insult."

"I was never 'for' Harry and was perfectly capable of making up my own mind as to who I was interested in dating."

"Yes. Something they all likely realized when you chose Weasley. They may not have considered themselves able to compete with the great Harry Potter, but I suspect they would have had a different view of their competitive advantages over Ron Weasley."

"Ron has more than his fair share of good qualities!"

"I'm sure." Which she had learned was his version of vehemently disagreeing. "He is – or was, at any rate – a mediocre student. I understand that his friends found him quite amusing, if occasionally mean-spirited."

"Where did you get that from?"

"Luna."

Hermione gaped at him. "Luna?"

"Yes."

"Luna told you about him? Was this when she was . . ." she glanced toward the cellar.

"After. Oddly enough, she seems rather fond of me. Shows up at odd intervals to see how I'm doing."

"Are you serious?"

"Quite."

Hermione could only stare at him.

"She knows I'm a werewolf, of course. They kept threatening to have me bite her, if she didn't behave."

"She knows?"

"Yes."

"I had no idea."

"She's unusually good at keeping confidences."

"Yes, I can imagine." She paused. "She told you Ron was mean-spirited?"

"Not in those words. More that she found him difficult to interpret. He would stand up for her if other people teased her, but seemed to find that . . . not incompatible with his own teasing."

"Yes," Hermione said quietly. "That's certainly Ron."

"At any rate, she was very much of the opinion that you and Potter would have made a much better match, with you both being compassionate to a fault."

"I don't think anyone can be compassionate to a fault."

"No, I don't suppose you would."

She took another sip, processing. "You and Luna." Her eyes flicked to his face. "Is there anything . . .?"

"No." He smiled. "No. I find her presence oddly soothing, but we would not suit as a couple."

"Why not? She's lovely!"

"Imagine saddling a soul like that with me," he said. "It would be like tying a battered old . . . cauldron to a butterfly."

"'A battered old cauldron'," she repeated.

"I'll own it's not the best analogy."

"Well . . . the imagery is . . ."

"Would you prefer 'tying a werewolf to a butterfly'?"

"No."

"Well, then. Cauldron it is."

Hermione sat back, smiling, unaware that her irritation had drifted away over the course of the conversation.


	8. May

_May_

"So I guess I'll see you in a few days then," Ron said, throwing himself down on the couch.

Hermione sighed. She was getting tired of having this same argument every month. "We live together, Ron. We see each other every day. And, honestly, if you want to see me that much, maybe spend a few less nights out drinking with your mates."

"Why would I? It's not like you're around anyway."

"I was around last night."

"Seamus just got a promotion!"

"And the night before that?"

"Merlin, I thought I was done with the nagging when I moved out of The Burrow."

"Well, on that charming note, I guess I'll be off. Try not to get any vomit on the carpet, darling."

She walked out, not bothering to look back. She had a perfectly good idea what sort of gesture he'd be making.

* * *

 _Three days later_

Hermione was surveying the breakfast options. Draco had started keeping his kitchen much better stocked, and it made everything a great deal more pleasant. She'd woken up in the middle of the night the night before and made a batch of chocolate chip cookies. And eaten half of it before it even got to the oven.

She regretted nothing.

She would make the sausage, she decided, and eggs of course. The fruit, as well. She hated chopping up pineapple, but Draco was always agreeable when assigned tasks.

When he walked into the kitchen a moment later, she did a double-take. He was wearing what looked like a very expensive muggle suit, complete with tie.

"What are you wearing?"

"Is it inappropriate?" He held his arms out, turned to the side. "I ordered it _online_." He frowned at the word. "Was that the correct terminology?"

"Yes. And no, the suit isn't inappropriate. It's lovely. I'm just surprised to see you in it." She came over, the better to examine it. "Good lord. You do have expensive tastes, don't you?"

He frowned. "Do I? I wasn't sure what the going rate was, so to speak, when it comes to muggle clothing."

"How much was this?"

"Three thousand pounds. Well, give or take a few hundred."

"Yes, give or take _a few hundred pounds_. Who would concern themselves with such minor sums?"

"You are mocking me."

"I am, yes." She patted his arm. "It's a very nice suit. Very expensive, but," she glanced around, "I suppose that's to be expected, all things considered. Now," and she returned to the eggs, "back to my original question. Why the suit?"

"I thought I would go into muggle London today. Go exploring."

"Did you?"

"Yes." He frowned. "Unless you think I should wait until it isn't so close to the full moon."

"No, not at all. What did you have in mind?"

He straightened the arm of his jacket. "I'm not really certain just yet. I thought perhaps I would go shopping."

"Naturally."

He slanted her a look.

"Perhaps have a meal," he continued. "Nothing too adventurous."

She paused, egg in hand. "Want a tour guide?"

"I couldn't possibly impose."

"Don't be silly," she said, cracking the egg. "It'll be fun."

"If you are certain you don't mind."

"I don't." She went about beating the eggs by hand while the cheese grated itself in the background. "Would you mind chopping up the pineapple?"

"Not at all."

He picked up the pineapple and slapped it down on a cutting board.

"Take off your jacket if you're going to do it by hand!" Hermione ordered. "You'll get juice on it."

He raised an eyebrow. "I have this wonderful little thing called a wand, and with a mere twitch," he demonstrated, "stains are banished from any piece of clothing."

She set a knife chopping up vegetables to put in the scramble. "For my peace of mind then."

He shook his head, smiling. "As you like." Jacket safely deposited on the back of a chair, he set about cutting up the pineapple.

* * *

Hermione decided on a simple pub for lunch, largely out of a perverse desire to make him feel out of place in his expensive suit. It had exactly zero impact.

"I would have been happy to buy you that dress," he was saying.

"Absolutely not. I am perfectly capable of supporting myself, thank you very much."

"I don't believe I ever called that in to question. I just meant that it would have made a nice gift, a show of appreciation, for such excellent guidance this morning."

She waved that away. "I was happy to go." She took a bite of her salad. "And, I'm happy I did." She sent him a conspiratorial smile. "Do you see that woman up at the bar?"

"I see several women up at the bar."

"The brunette. The one who looked you up and down when you walked in."

"I don't recall any such look."

"I do. The one in the red shirt."

"I see that there is a woman in a red shirt. I still do not concede that-"

"Go ask her out."

"I beg your pardon." He was very offended. So offended, in fact, that he went as far as to set his fork down. With snap.

"Go ask her out."

"I certainly will not."

"Because she's a muggle?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Because the proper courtesies have not taken place, and could not, under the circumstances."

Hermione threw back her head, laughing. "First of all," she murmured, when she had control of herself. "You are probably the only wizard left who follows those outdated rules. And second, she's a muggle. The proper courtesies are, 'Hi, I'm Draco. Can I take you to dinner tonight?'"

"That cannot possibly be how muggles court."

"Muggles don't court, they date. And half the time they don't even do that. Trust me, you'll be coming down on the side of old-fashioned formality, no matter what."

He frowned. "You honestly want me to walk over there and ask her to accompany me to dinner."

Her lips twitched. "Yes, please. In exactly those words."

"This is another one of your jokes," he decided, eyeing her suspiciously.

"No! It's not, I swear. At least go over and say hello."

"Yes, that wouldn't be at all untoward. 'Hello. I know we've never met before, but I thought I would come interrupt your meal to introduce myself.'"

Hermione buried her head in her hands. "God, you're hopeless."

He said nothing for a full minute, determinedly eating his food. And helplessly glancing at the girl at the bar.

"Go!"

He folded his napkin quite forcefully. "Fine. But if this ends in utter humiliation . . ."

"It won't be my fault in the least. Dating has its risks, like anything else. Now be a brave little Slytherin and go ask her out."

He glared at the last bit, but since he'd already risen, he seemed to feel compelled to continue his forward progress.

She watched as he walked over with a reasonable approximation of confidence. Realizing she wouldn't be able to hear what he said, Hermione shamelessly cast a spell to help her eavesdrop.

"Hello." Draco offered his hand, which the woman took. Hermione mentally high-fived herself. "My name is Draco."

The woman raised her eyebrows, still with her hand in his. "Draco? That's quite a name."

"Yes," he released her, looking momentarily nervous. "My family have odd . . . traditions, when it comes to naming."

"Oh?"

"They're very partial to anything to do with the stars."

"And Draco is . . . ?"

"A constellation." He smiled, and Hermione nearly clapped. It was a good smile. A charming, self-deprecating smile. "It could be worse. My mother was called Narcissa."

The girl laughed, then clapped her hand to her mouth, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh at your mum, but that would be awful. How did she survive that?"

"Well, she was quite convinced of her own superiority, so it really wasn't all that difficult for her."

Hermione held her breath. That was the first misstep.

"I see."

"Oh, yes. I should warn you now, I'm told I have similar tendencies."

"A self-aware snob?"

"Yes. I'm not entirely sure if that makes me better or worse."

"Better. Almost certainly." She smiled. "Draco."

"I don't believe I've gotten your name yet."

"Annie." She held out her hand. He took it, brought it to his lips.

Risky, Hermione thought to herself.

Apparently Draco's thoughts ran parallel. "Forgive me. My friend," he inclined his head toward Hermione, who pretended to be otherwise engaged, "tells me I'm doomed to come across as old-fashioned and overly formal."

Annie smiled, looking completely charmed. "Old-fashioned, certainly. But I didn't mind." She glanced at Hermione. "I was going to ask about your friend, actually."

"Has she offended you in some way? She has a terrible habit of ordering people about." He obviously knew she was listening in.

The girl shook her head. "No, of course not. That would be something in a restaurant, wouldn't it?"

"I wouldn't put it past her."

"The two of you aren't . . ."

"Oh, no. She's quite happily – or unhappily, as often seems to be the case with people in long term relationships – involved with a man entirely unworthy of her." While Hermione quietly cursed his idiocy in her head, he continued with a smile. "Though it gives me hope that I too may find someone far too good for me." He flashed a smile, that same charming smile Hermione hadn't actually known he possessed. "Which brings me to my original reason for coming over here. Is there any chance I could take you to dinner?"

She smiled. "A very good chance."

"Tomorrow night?"

She nodded. "If you give me your mobile, I'll put in my number."

Hermione held her breath.

"If you'll believe it, I'm on my way to buy a new one right now. My old mobile, well . . . it's a long story, involving a lake, and a boat, and a poorly timed fall." He cocked his head. "Actually it's not that long of a story."

She laughed, right on cue, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

"If you give me your number, I promise you'll be the first call I make. A christening, of sorts."

"Sure. Umm . . ." she looked around for a pen and paper.

"You can just tell me. There is no chance at all I would let myself forget."

She smiled, simultaneously charmed and disbelieving. She said it once, listened to him say it back.

"Tomorrow, then." He held out his hand, brought hers to his lips once more.

"Tomorrow."

When he returned to Hermione's table, he leaned over and murmured. "Merlin, I'm surprised my legs didn't give out on me. That was terrifying."

She dissolved into laughter.

"It's not that funny." He wiped his hands on his pants. "Also, it seems I'll be needing a mobile."

A few minutes later, when the girl went to leave, she stopped by the table and handed him a folded piece of paper, looking a bit embarrassed. "Just in case your memory fails you."

* * *

When they returned to Malfoy Manor, an unexpected visitor was sitting on the steps, door open behind him.

"Ron. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see who this _werewolf_ is you've been palling around with. And I'm right glad I did!"

Hermione looked at the door, past it, and into the house. The whole place had been rifled through, turned upside down. "Ron, what have you done?"

"When I didn't find you here, I searched it. I've reason to be suspicious." He glared at Malfoy.

"And you found nothing," Hermione said, arms folded across her chest.

"I found loads of your things strewn about the house!"

"Yes. You didn't want them at our flat, so I left them here. I thought I was being considerate."

He was on his feet now, shouting at her. "You think staying at my sworn enemy's house-"

"Sworn enemy? What century is this Ron?"

"When you should be at home with your boyfriend-"

"When I _should_ be? I'm sorry, but there is no _should_. I can be wherever I bloody well choose to be whenever I bloody well choose to be there."

"Well not anymore!"

" _Excuse_ _me_!" Draco cut in, sounding offended enough for the both of them. "She's not a servant to . . ." He broke off, apparently surprised at himself. "Merlin," he said blankly. "I think I'm a feminist."

A choked sound escaped Hermione's lips, something that would have been a laugh if she weren't so furious. "I'm sorry about your house, Draco."

He waved it off. "It's nothing."

"You're sorry about his house? About _his_ _house_! What about the fact that you've been lying to me all this time?"

"When did I lie to you, exactly?"

"When you didn't tell me who it was you were coming to 'help'."

"I was perfectly clear that I had no intention of telling you who it was. You know how I feel about werewolf identification."

"Yes, let's protect Draco Malfoy. As if he hasn't gotten exactly what he deserved."

Hermione fell silent. A very, very dangerous silence. She turned to Draco, using every last bit of her self-control. "I am very sorry about your house. If you leave the mess, I'll come-"

"You will not!" Ron roared at her.

Hermione turned and apparated on the spot. Ron followed moments later.


	9. The Next Day

Hermione refused to speak to Ron that night. She locked herself in the bedroom when she got home and would not let him in. She apparated out of the house the next morning without a word, grateful for the distraction work would provide.

It helped right up until she walked past the newspaper, and saw Draco on the cover, with a single word headline underneath.

Werewolf.

That was it. That was all they needed to say, apparently.

The picture they used must have been old. It looked like it was from when he was still at school. She could barely recognized him. Smug and condescending, this Draco scowled out from the newspaper, apparently unconscious of the derision leveled at him. He bore no resemblance at all to the man Hermione had gotten to know over the last year.

She snatched up the paper and apparated to her flat. "Did you do this?" she shouted, storming toward Ron and shoving the newspaper in his face.

"I did, yeah." He responded, folding his arms and looking self-righteous. "I thought people had a right to know."

"You absolute-"

She broke off as Dean Thomas cleared his throat. Glancing around, she realized that her living room was filled with people. Harry and Ginny sat together on a chair. Dean, Seamus, and Neville were all scattered about the room.

"We should probably get going," Neville said.

"No." Hermione took a breath. "Stay. Please." She turned on her heel and walked to the bedroom.

Two minutes later she was back with a bag packed.

Ron rolled his eyes. "You can't run off to your mum's every time we have a fight."

"You know how I feel about werewolf identification," she snapped.

"And you know how I feel about it. Not to mention how I feel about Malfoy." He glanced around at his friends. "She's been 'helping him' for nearly a year."

He was obviously expecting some sounds of support, but everyone was trying very hard to pretend they weren't there.

Hermione walked to the door, but before she could open it, a knock sounded. She found Draco on the step, looking nervous.

"Hi," he said, hands in the pockets of yet another absurdly expensive suit. "Sorry, I'm sure you're busy, but-

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Ron roared, lunging toward the door.

Hermione ignored him, but pulled the door half-closed, to protect Draco from her boyfriend's rage. She looked apologetically at Draco. "Have you seen-"

Draco nodded. "I get The Prophet."

"I am so sorry. I had no idea he would-"

"DON'T APOLOGIZE TO HIM. HE'S A BLOODY DEATH EATER!"

Draco waved away Hermione's apology, and followed her lead in ignoring Ron. "It was going to come out eventually. That's not why I'm here."

She raised her eyebrows.

He held his arms out wide, half turned to each side. "Do I pass?"

"Oh! Your date! I completely forgot."

Ron scoffed behind them. "You have a date? Who would go out with the likes of you? She'd have to be mad."

Hermione flicked her wand and Ron went silent.

She took the time to study him carefully, gave a slow nod. "Everything except the bowtie," she said, reaching forward to untie it. In a flash, she'd transfigured it into a pocket square, folded it, and slid it into his pocket. "Perfect."

"He has a point," Draco said, frowning at Ron.

"No, he hasn't. Not in the least. I think you're actually quite likeable."

At his disbelieving look, she sighed.

"I mean it. You are scrupulously polite. Even when you hated having me there, you always held doors and offered refreshments. You're unexpectedly considerate. And you're actually quite funny. You'll do just fine."

Ron, in the background, had taken to trying to shout. He was waving his arms madly and mouthing what appeared to be profanities. When it looked like he might charge, Hermione casually petrified him.

"The tie was . . . ?" Draco asked, deciding to pretend he hadn't heard the thump of her boyfriend hitting the floor.

"Not impossible to pull off, but not terribly common either."

"I see."

She gave him the once over. "I approve. I'm sure Annie will as well," she said, smiling as though her boyfriend was not currently petrified and silenced on the ground beside her.

"Alright." He breathed out. "Good." He wiped his hands on his pants. "I'm nervous."

She smiled. "Excellent. That just means you like her enough to be worried."

He pursed his lips, clearly unsure how he felt about that idea.

"Good luck," she said.

"Thanks." He started to turn away, then paused. "I pay, correct?"

"Yes. Well, not necessarily. You could go Dutch, but I'd say – especially considering, you know," she gestured to the suit, "that you should offer to pay. If she offers to split it, decline the first time. If she insists, accept gracefully." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "The feminist inside me loathes me for saying all of that."

He smiled. "Doors and chairs?"

"Yes," Hermione decided after a moment. "She was charmed by the hand thing, so she will probably like that." She paused. "Doors are definitely safe. Play chairs by ear."

He took a deep breath. "Ok."

"You'll be fine. Just be yourself."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Don't be Hogwarts you," Hermione said. "That would be a trainwreck. But current you should do just fine."

The moment he walked away, Hermione did the counter spells to free Ron. Then she picked up her bag and walked out the door.

"I thought we were done with this breakup makeup bollocks," he shouted after her.

"No one said anything about making up," she said quietly as she walked away.

* * *

 _a/n Thanks for the reviews. I'm crazy busy at the moment, so I probably won't be responding to them, but they get sent to my e-mail inbox and give me a swift kick in the pants to hurry up and edit/write/post the next chapter :-)_


	10. June

_June_

"She'll be back," Ron was saying, a week later, over at Harry and Ginny's for dinner. The couple exchanged a look.

"I think you might want to take this a bit more seriously, mate," Harry said quietly. "It sounded pretty final."

"It always sounds final with Hermione." He said, shoving a massive bite of food into his mouth, and proceeding to talk around it. "You know how she is."

"Ron," Ginny said, looking very serious. "She moved all of her things out."

"She's making a point. She's always 'leaving me.' She just goes to stay with her parents for a few days to cool off."

"Ron."

"It's all show. Trust me. We'll be fine. We're perfect for each other."


	11. A Few Weeks Later

_A few weeks later_

Harry knocked on the window of a plain gray car. Ron, struggling somewhat to work the buttons, rolled it down.

"Can I get in?"

"Sure," Ron said, none-too-pleased with the idea.

"What are you doing, Ron?"

"Sitting."

"Sitting," Harry repeated.

"Yeah."

"In a car. Outside of restaurant that Draco Malfoy happens to be in."

"And?"

"You've been drinking," Harry said with a sigh.

"I have a right to be suspicious of him. He's a death eater. And a werewolf. I'm just doing my job."

"He hasn't done anything to cause suspicion, Ron. If anything, the fact that Hermione was going there once a month makes him less suspicious. He let her search the house. Hell, you searched the house."

"I'm sure if they searched it thoroughly enough they'd turn up something."

"Actually, now that you mention it, there was a very dark item. A knife. One of a set of six. Apparently it was made specifically for the Malfoy family."

Ron looked over. "Really?"

"Yeah." Harry stared out the passenger's side window, watched a mother and her young son cross the street. "The weird thing was, Malfoy turned it in right after he took possession of the house. Apparently he's actually on fairly good terms with the guys in the Dark Artifacts Office. Used to come in regularly, since he kept finding new stashes of dangerous items."

Ron shrugged. "Doesn't seem that weird."

"The weird part was that he turned it in again a few weeks ago. Apparently he found it while cleaning up his house. He said it was lucky you'd searched the place, or he might not have noticed it had reappeared. It could have gotten him into loads of trouble." Harry watched the mother stoop to tie the boy's shoe. "He asked if they could check it for spells that might cause it to return to a specific place. Said he figured that was the only explanation that made sense."

"There's no explaining Dark Artifacts," Ron said eventually.

"Yeah."

"Ginny's probably waiting for you."

"Yeah. Listen, you should come back with me. Have dinner. You can stay the night if you want. We've got the guest bedroom all made up."

"No, thanks." Ron sighed. "I should get home."

Harry reached over, squeezed his shoulder. "It'll get better, Ron. Just give it time."


	12. And Then

The moment Harry left, Ron got out of the car. He marched across the street, wand up his sleeve, and straight into the restaurant. Straight to the table where Draco Malfoy sat with a pretty muggle named Annie.

She was laughing at something, hands clasped with his across the table.

"I suppose you think he's charming," Ron demanded, striding up to her.

"Excuse me?" she looked at Ron, baffled, nervous. Then she glanced around the restaurant, silently seeking help.

Ron leaned forward. "You don't know. You don't even know what he is."

Draco patted Annie's hand. "I'm sorry about this," he whispered. Then he rose and took a step toward Ron, who drew his wand.

"Don't come any closer."

"Look around you, Weasley," Draco said quietly. "Think about what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

Draco surveyed the room, noted the hostess nervously calling the police. "Why don't we talk about this outside?"

"Why don't we talk about this right here! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?"

"Do to whom?"

"To whom? TO WHOM? Oh, yeah. That's good. That's good. Correct my grammar. Mr. Galleons upon galleons. Is that what it is? Is it her? Did she just decide she wanted someone with a bit more to give her? Because I can tell you right now, I do all right. And I could do better! I could sell my story to the Prophet."

"Yes, that would be a novel idea," Draco murmured.

"What is he talking about, Draco," Annie asked, concerned. "I've never met him before."

Draco shifted subtly, so that he blocked her from Ron's view. "He's upset about Hermione. They broke up, and he thinks it's somehow my doing."

"IT IS YOUR DOING!" Ron paced away, paced back, pointed the wand at Draco again. "What was it, huh? Was it a potion? Is that how you turned her against me?"

"No one turned her against you but you, Weasley."

"Oh! _Oh_. Is that how it's supposed to be then? Right. That seems so much more likely. That she just hated me, her boyfriend of _four years_ , so much that she thought a _death eater werewolf_ was a better alternative."

All the diners in the restaurant were now alarmed, moving away from the altercation, calling the police on mobile phones, explaining that there was a madman in the restaurant.

"No, he doesn't have a weapon," a woman was whispering into her phone. "But he's brandishing a stick and ranting about werewolves and death, and I don't even know, eating death. Something about _eating_ death."

"You think," Ron continued, jabbing toward Draco with his wand, "that it's more likely she just happened to fall for someone who _tortured her_ -"

"I never touched her," Draco said, cracks appearing in his calm demeanor. "And she hasn't _fallen_ for anyone."

"Oh, right. Right." Ron nodded, swinging his wand toward a man and a woman rushing out the door.

Draco lunged for the wand, and Ron's instinctive reaction sent Draco flying into a wall on the opposite side of the room. Screams followed, then a stampede toward the door.

Ron blinked at the room, surveying the damage. The table Malfoy had been sitting at was shattered, the muggle woman he'd been sitting with lay stunned on the floor. Ron wasn't even sure what spell he'd used. A thin layer of smoke and dust hung in the air.

Ron slowly backed toward the door.

Annie, gathering her wits, rushed over to Draco.

"Did he have a bomb? Oh, god. He had a bomb, didn't he?" She checked her date for injuries, found his head bleeding profusely, a piece of wood from the table sticking out of his stomach. It had pierced his back and gone clean through.

"Oh, God. Oh, God. You need an ambulance."

"I need my phone," Draco managed, blood dripping out of his mouth as he spoke. "It's in my pocket. Can you get it?"

"Yes. I'll call 999."

"No. Call Hermione."

"What?"

"She's a doctor. She'll get here faster."

"Oh. Ok, umm . . ." she found the contact. "What if she doesn't answer?"

"Then you can call 999." He coughed and more blood came out, to the horror of his date. "Tell her I'm hurt, really seriously, and she needs to come now. Right now."

Annie nodded. The moment Hermione picked up, she said exactly that, gave their location, and the phone went dead.

"Ok. Now I'm calling 999."

"It's not neces-" but he broke off coughing, and she called anyway.

Hermione arrived seconds later. Annie stared at her blankly. "How did you-" She watched in stunned terror as Hermione, too, pulled out a wand and began muttering. Annie backed away, eyes wide and frantic, forgotten phone inches from her mouth.

Draco jerked his head toward his date. "You need to-"

Hermione glanced back, cast a quick spell, and Annie went still. Confused, but unafraid. She simply appeared to be in shock.

"We can fix it later," Hermione said, as she returned to her spells. "I can get this under control enough to get you to St. Mungo's."

"I'd appreciate that," he said.

A sharp laugh burst out of Hermione's mouth, quickly followed by tears, which she swept away without pausing in her treatment. "What happened?"

"Ron."

She froze. "No."

"I was also surprised," he choked out, flecks of blood hitting the air with the cough that followed.

"That's not possible."

He raised a hand, wiped it across his mouth, smearing blood across his face. "I think it would have been less likely had he not been quite so drunk."

"Oh, God." She shook her head. "I can't . . . Ok. I can't deal with that now. Right now I just need to get you to St. Mungo's. Then I can send a team to clean up here. And then we can deal with . . ."

She grabbed his arm and apparated them both to St. Mungo's. The moment they arrived, healers rushed over, surrounding them, taking control of the situation.

Ignoring them, Draco met her eyes. "Can you take care of Annie? You, personally? Make sure she . . . I don't know, make sure whatever she believes happened doesn't hurt her."

"Listen, Draco. We can sort this out. Just say that it was a-"

"There are always going to be people who want to hurt me, Hermione. I'm horrified to admit it never occurred to me they could end up hurting her, too."

"Draco."

"I'm serious. It needs to happen. I just don't think I can be the one to do it."

Hermione brushed impatiently at more tears. "But you were so excited-"

"Just make it something that's good for her. Make it be that she ended things because she knew she deserved better."

Hermione said nothing, watching as the healers cast spells and called out demands for potions.

"Hermione."

She nodded. "Alright." She squeezed his hand once, and then went to clean up the mess.


	13. The Mess

By the time she got back to the restaurant, it was crawling with wizards. Most of them aurors. She spotted Harry immediately.

"Hermione." He looked pale, worried. "Can I-"

"I need to do something," she said, pushing past him and straight for Annie, who was standing in a corner, staring around with dull eyes.

"Hi, Annie."

"Hermione?" The woman smiled a blank, simple smile. "You're Draco's friend, aren't you? Hermione?"

"I am." Hermione had to blink back tears, to focus on exactly what memories she would build. It was easier than she thought it would be. A man who had seemed right for her, but wasn't. Who didn't treat her as she deserved. Who didn't listen to her. Who didn't respect her. Who didn't value her. Annie ended things because she understood she deserved better, and decided, in that moment, to never again tolerate less than what she deserved.

The memories, the emotions she created, would last. They would serve well. They were detailed, accurate, intense. Within herself, Hermione had a deep well of emotion and experience to draw upon.

"Good luck," she said, stepping away from the woman.

"I hope he'll be alright," Annie said, catching Hermione's hand. "I liked him, I did. I just-"

"You deserved better." Hermione smiled. "I know the feeling." Then she walked straight to Harry.

Pausing in front of him, she folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. "So. Any idea who's responsible?"

His eyes flicked to hers. Nervous. Worried. Guilty.

"He went to you, then?"

"Right away, Hermione." He kept his voice pitched low. Hermione didn't think that was necessary. He'd clearly handpicked the responders. They would all cover for Ron. "He was out of his mind. He'd had more to drink than I realized."

"Than you realized? Were you with him tonight? Did you know he was planning this?"

As her voice rose, Harry gently took her arm and led her off to a quiet corner. "I saw him earlier, tried to get him to come home with me. He said he was going to go back to your flat, to _his_ flat," he corrected. "I should have-"

"Done something." She pressed her lips together, looked away, quietly seething. "Where was this? This meeting, earlier."

"Hermione."

"Where?"

It took him a moment to respond. "Here."

"Oh, fantastic," she said, shoving her hair out of her face, unconscious of the fact that her hands were still covered in blood. "So you saw my drunk ex-boyfriend outside of the restaurant where his 'sworn enemy' was having a date with a very nice, completely innocent muggle girl, and decided that leaving him to commit attempted murder was the way to go."

"He wasn't trying to kill anyone, Hermione."

"Really? And you're basing this on all of your knowledge of Draco's injuries?" She paused. "Except you don't have any knowledge of his injuries, because I'd gotten him to St. Mungo's before you arrived. So let me tell you, if he hadn't called me," she said, voice catching, "when he did, if I hadn't answered, he would be dead right now. That's what your _mate_ did. But you go ahead and cover for him." She said, backing away. "Because Draco being a prejudiced wanker in school definitely justifies _this_." She glanced around. "And the muggle collateral damage, that's nothing. Who cares about that? So what if he might have killed Annie, too. The really important thing is that Ron be protected at all costs."

"Hermione."

When he stepped toward her, she raised her hands to ward him off. "Don't. I'm done. With both of you." She glanced around, took in the people Harry had asked to help him. "All of you."

He was silent as she walked away.


	14. Back

Hermione went back to St. Mungo's and immediately demanded a status report.

He was doing well. They wanted him to stay for a few days, but they said he was going to make a full recovery.

No one asked her what had happened. No one from the ministry came to take her statement. She didn't even bother to find out what story they'd been fed.

When he woke, she was sitting next to the bed.

"Hey." She squeezed his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than expected." He almost smiled. "Turns out recovering from a near death experience isn't as bad as shifting."

"Well that's . . . an awful thought."

"Tell me about it. At least I have the hope that _this_ won't happen again."

"You might want to hold off on that," she said, looking down. "No one has been in to take my statement. No one-"

"Are you really surprised, Hermione?"

"Furious," she said, swiping at fresh tears. These were the angry kind. "But not that surprised, no."

"It's fine. Annie's been . . . you've taken care of that?"

She nodded.

"Then it's fine."

"We could force the issue. With my testimony it might-"

"Maybe. Or maybe you'd just end up ostracized."

"I don't care."

"I do."

"Draco."

"Besides, the last thing I want to deal with is a trial. I have been through enough of those."

"If you're sure . . ."

"I'm sure."

"Because I would-"

"I know you would."

She started crying in earnest now. It was the first time the tears had really gotten the best of her. "I'm so sorry," she wept, resting her forehead on the edge of his bed.

Reaching over, he patted her head awkwardly. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

"Yes, I do," she sobbed. "If it weren't for me, he wouldn't have-"

"If it weren't for you, I'd still be locked away in my house, waiting to die." He stroked her hair. "At least now I know for certain I want to live."


	15. Guilt and Other Fine Entrees

_A few weeks later_

Hermione looked at the heap of food left on Draco's plate and made a little "tsk" sound, complete with a wagging finger. "You need to eat more."

Draco glared at her, looking for all the world like a stubborn child. "Hermione, I am perfectly fine. I am entirely healed. You do not need to hover."

"I'm not hovering. And I am _not_ nagging."

"I don't believe I mentioned nagging."

"You were thinking it."

"I had no idea you'd mastered legilimency. I assure you, I've been on the wrong end of it quite enough in my short life, and would thank you to leave off."

Hermione, unfazed, looked between him and the half eaten plate of food.

"You need to stop feeling guilty, Hermione. It wasn't your fault, what happened. And I've come out the other end of it just fine. You don't have to come here all the time out of some misplaced notion you need to make up for what he did."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, playing with her last bite of food. "I do feel guilty," she said. "But you give me too much credit." She made a face, annoyed with herself. "I think I come here as much to get away from my parents as to make sure you're doing alright. You have no idea what it's like, moving back in once you're an adult. Sure, a day or two here and there is fine, but . . ."

He said nothing at first, eyes surveying the room. "Well," he said eventually. "You could stay here."

It only made her laugh. "That's the same problem, different place. I just need to figure out how to get my old flat back. Or one like it."

"I'm sorry," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I think I must have misheard. Did you say living _here_ would be the same as living with your parents? I had no idea you viewed me in such a parental manner."

She rolled her eyes. "I just mean it's still not being on my own."

"Why do you have to be on your own? I've been on my own for years. I hate it. I'd welcome the company. You could have your pick of the rooms. Hell, you could take half of the house. Space is not an issue."

"I couldn't possibly."

He shrugged, picking up their plates and walking them to the sink. "Well, if it's because you would prefer to live alone – or even with a different roommate – then by all means, you should do what you want. But I'd like you to know that I've, well," he cleared his throat, suddenly awkward, "come to consider you a friend." He smiled, a bit unsure. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not! We _are_ friends."

"Well, then think about it. Somehow I imagine living with a friend wouldn't be as trying as living with your parents."


	16. Yellow

_July_

Hermione knocked on the door, surprised when Luna opened it.

"Hello," Luna said, smiling and pulling Hermione inside. "Please come in. I'm so excited for you to see. You're early, of course, but I don't think that will be a problem."

"Early? Was he expecting me? I just wanted to stop by and give him . . ." She trailed off, vaguely gesturing at Luna's back with the CD she was holding.

"Oh, yes. We aren't at all finished yet. But you'll get the idea."

"Get the idea?" Hermione followed the blond up the stairs.

"Oh, yes. I think it looks really good."

Hermione was about to ask what looked good when she saw their destination up ahead. One of the guest bedrooms, the one Hermione tended to use, was clearly in the throes of a makeover.

It had been renovated at some point over the last few weeks, but the paint brushes were what really drew Hermione's attention. They were currently painting the walls a warm yellow, without any human assistance at all.

"Luna, do you have the-" Draco broke off as he spotted Hermione. "Oh. You're here."

"Yes." Hermione gave him a baffled smile. "What's going on?"

"Umm . . . Well, we thought," he glanced at Luna, "Or, uhh, I thought you might feel more comfortable here if you could make it your own. Not that I . . . I don't mean to press you for a decision. I thought this room would be a good . . . test case? So to speak. You stay here at the full moons anyway, so if you decide against moving in, the renovation is still worthwhile." He slid his hands into the pockets of new jeans, and Hermione winced internally. Now he almost certainly had paint in his pockets.

"That's very sweet, but you don't need to –"

"I know. I just thought it would be nice." He frowned at the walls. "Luna chose the color. She thought you would like something bright and cheerful."

Hermione smiled at him, then at Luna. "I do. It's very nice."

"The bathroom is the best part," Luna said, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the room.

"The bathroom?"

"It's the main change. He did most of it himself." Luna looked, for all the world, like a proud parent. "Expanded the area, added the fixtures." She waved a hand toward the bathroom, let Hermione walk in first. "There was mild flooding," Luna added, unfazed by the idea.

Draco cleared his throat, stared off toward a random wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"But we got it all cleaned up," Luna continued, sending Draco a breezy smile.

Hermione, meanwhile, was appraising a deep clawfoot tub. "Wow. This is really nice."

"I suggested the tub," Luna explained. "He added this." She leaned down and, with a wave of her wand, a flat surface, vaguely reminiscent of a TV tray, swung over the middle of the tub. "For when you want to read books in the bath."

"Oh. Wow." Hermione grinned at them both. "Now you're never going to get me out of here."

"He has plans drawn up," Luna continued, oblivious to Draco's discomfort, "for a separate entrance, if you decide you want to move in."

"What?" Hermione turned to Draco. "No, I don't need that. I'm perfectly fine with the front door."

"Does that mean you are going to move in?" Luna asked. Draco stood just outside the bathroom, hands still in his pockets, watching them.

"Umm . . ." Hermione glanced around. "Are you sure it wouldn't be an inconvenience?"

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but Luna beat him to it. "I'm very sure he'd love to have you." She smiled back at Draco. "I was really very worried about him, but now that you're friends, I feel much better."

Draco cleared his throat. "Don't move in unless you want to. I mean, don't do it to take care of me. I can assure you that I will be perfectly fine either way." He sent Luna a scolding look, which she seemed not to notice.

"I know that," Hermione responded, patting his arm as she walked past him. She took a spin around the bedroom, trying to envision how it would look completed. "I do like the yellow."

"We thought it would be best to get you a new bed," Luna said, gesturing to the empty room. "But I think you should pick it out."

"And buy it," Hermione agreed.

"No, I –" Draco protested, but broke off as Hermione laid a hand on his arm.

"I'll take it with me when I go. At some point, I'm sure I'll want my own place, but for now . . ." She smiled at him. "For now I think this is perfect."


	17. First Light of Day

Hermione opened her eyes to the sight of a bright yellow wall. Luna, as a "room-warming gift" had painted her a picture of a field of lilacs under a bright blue sky, with a few wisps of clouds blowing across it. There must have been a spell on it, because it honestly looked as if the clouds and lilacs were moving with the wind.

Hermione rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. There were no paintings there, but the ornate gold work from the original owners – or whoever might have added it along the way – remained. It was such an odd contrast to Luna and Draco's renovations.

Hermione glanced at the clock, then let her eyes drift closed. She had planned to go into work, but decided late the night before to call in sick. Or owl in sick, as it were. She intended to take full advantage of her chance for a lie-in.

When she could marshal the energy, she would go downstairs and make breakfast. She smiled to herself, pleased that she'd thought to do some grocery shopping the day before, before she'd moved her meager possessions in. There wasn't much. She'd left Ron with all the furniture, and only taken what was hers outright.

It was a bleak thought, really. Everything she owned fit into a single bedroom.

Shaking of her dreary musings, she reminded herself that it really didn't matter. This was a new start. A fresh start.

Last night had been some of the most fun she'd had in years.

Luna had come to help her move in. She had appeared at the door with sage in hand, and insisted on burning out all the old ghosts that lived in the house. Hermione and Draco played along. The best part was the dancing. Luna claimed joyful movements sent lingering spirits to flight, so they'd all twirled their way through each room, burning sage in hand, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Luna claimed the laughter would do the trick, if the dancing didn't.

They ate food, drank wine, and laughed more than Hermione had in months. Maybe even years.

She squeezed her eyes shut and snuggled into her pillow, unaware that she was smiling at the memory. This could be good. This could be exactly what she needed.

She let out a slow breath, deliberately relaxing every muscle in her body. She'd go back to sleep, and then she'd get up and make herself a massive breakfast. Eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast. Or maybe sausage. Hell, she'd do both bacon _and_ sausage. This was a holiday of sorts. She would feast.

Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. She would get up shortly. Just not yet. She wanted to lay in bed for a while, just rest her eyes and listen to the music.

She frowned.

Why was there music?

It sounded like piano, something sad and haunting. Rolling out of bed, Hermione dragged a blanket around herself and padded in the direction of the sound. For the briefest of moments, she actually wondered if there might have been a ghost in the house, playing some long-forgotten tune. Then she shook it off.

Just down the hall, she found her ghost. He was playing by memory, judging by the lack of sheet music. His blond head was tipped down, fingers flying across the keys.

He looked utterly absorbed, like the roof could have fallen in and he wouldn't have noticed. Hermione leaned against the door, settling in to watch as the song wound down.

When he finished, though she didn't want to, she thought she should speak. It would be rude to watch him for too long without him knowing.

"Good morning."

The keylid banged down, and he swung around to face her. "I thought you were at work."

"I called in sick. Well, I sent an owl. How do wizards say that, anyway?" She smiled, charmed by his discomfort. "You play beautifully."

His color rose, but he didn't say anything.

"You aren't going to politely thank me for my compliment?" she asked, careful to add a teasing note. He still had trouble knowing exactly how to take everything she said, still had a tendency to get offended at what was intended as good-natured ribbing.

"Thank you." Apparently this was one of those times.

She scooted into the room and closed the door, then slid down to sit with her back against it, blanket still wrapped around her. "Why are you embarrassed right now?" she asked. She'd learned that with Draco, direct was often better.

He glanced at the piano, then back at her. "I didn't know anyone was listening."

"No," she said, after a moment's thought. "I don't buy it. When someone walks in on you dancing like a madman," she paused, amused at his blush, "I can see being embarrassed. When someone walks in on you playing piano like a seasoned professional . . ."

"My mother wanted me to play."

Hermione waited patiently for him to go on.

He turned back to the piano, lifted the lid. "My father thought it was a waste of time."

"What did you think?"

He shrugged. His hands hovered over the keys momentarily before they settled, folded, back into his lap. "I didn't think about it very much. I played because my mother wanted me to. We both tried to . . . limit my father's exposure to it."

"Neither of them are here now."

"No," he agreed. "They are not."

"But you still play."

He picked out a tune with one hand, something she didn't recognize. "Well, I had to keep myself busy somehow."

His back straightened, and he turned to her with a forced air of cheeriness. It wasn't something she'd seen from him before, this false front.

"Should we have breakfast then?" he asked.

"Absolutely not." When he looked rather taken aback, she only smiled. "I demand a show." She pretended to mull over her options. "Something cheerful, I think. Yes. A morning song."

"A morning song?"

"M-O," she said, "not M-O-U, just to be clear. Something bright and cheerful, since that's how I felt waking up this morning."

"Is it?" His smile was so genuinely pleased that she nearly relented.

"It is." She nodded. "So, go on then, piano man. Play me something happy."

"Something happy?"

"Yes."

"There's not a lot in my repertoire which fits that description."

"Hmm . . . That _is_ a major shortcoming. Believe me I will be speaking to your manager about that."

Equal parts baffled and bemused, he thought about it for a moment, and then turned back to the keyboard.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, folded her arms and rested her chin on them, settling in to watch him play. Her heart broke a little with the first notes. The song wasn't bright or cheerful, but she supposed it could qualify as happy. She'd asked for frolicking in a field of sunflowers, and he'd given her sitting by a river at the first light of day.

When he finished, he looked so uncertain that she nearly played it off, nearly patted him on the back and said that it was exactly what she'd been looking for. Instead she rose and, blanket still securely wrapped around herself, walked over to him. "We're going to have to work on that," she said, scooting onto the bench next to him.

"This," she said, "is cheerful happy." And, with one finger and much stumbling, she proceeded to pick out one of the few songs she could remember from her limited childhood lessons.

Then she took his hand and moved him through the song, note by note, key by key. When she let him go, he continued playing the simply melody, eyes on her rather than the keyboard, clearly amused.

"This is what you wanted me to play?" he asked.

"Well, no. I can't play the piano. This is horrid. But something _like_ this, just . . . better."

He smiled at that. With his left hand, he added chords to support the melody. Within moments, he had a proper song going.

"That's it," she said, bumping his shoulder with her own. "Much better." Verbally patting herself on the back, she added with a grin, "I am so good for you."

He did not dispute the point.


	18. On Toothbrushes and Butterflies

_A few weeks later_

It was Saturday night, and Draco was looking for Hermione. He was reasonably sure she was somewhere in the house, and given that she was not in the kitchen, he was really only left with two options. He tried the library first, and was not at all surprised to find her snuggled in on the couch with a massive comforter.

He paused at the entrance when he heard a male voice.

 _"You know, in some states you could get arrested for that."_

Draco frowned, and started to step back out.

 _"So you blew me off for a bottle of tequila. Tequila's no good for you. It doesn't call, doesn't write. It's not nearly as much fun to wake up to."_

Draco did not like this American. But it wasn't his business who she had over. He would give them their privacy.

Then he heard a woman's voice, an American woman who was certainly not Hermione. _"Take me for a ride, Derek."_

Baffled, Draco walked up to the couch. Hermione had her laptop on her lap, and was watching pictures move across the screen. This must be the films she'd told him about.

She glanced up at him, narrowed her eyes. "I'm watching comfort shows. Don't judge me."

He smiled. "I'm just happy there isn't an irritating man named Derek in here."

She laughed at that. After a moment, she sat up and scooted over to make room for him. "You can sit, if you want. But you aren't allowed to comment on my choice of shows."

"I wouldn't know how to begin."

"Good."

"What is this, exactly?"

"Grey's Anatomy." She turned, studied him. "We'll start from the beginning, and you can decide for yourself if you like it."

"Do you think I will?"

She shook her head, smiling. "Probably not. It's ridiculous. They're doctors, who are interns for like five years, even though it should only be one, and horrible things are always happening to them. It's absurd." She gave him a sheepish look. "I love it. It's my guilty pleasure."

He didn't know how to take that. A small part of him wanted to make a scandalous comment about guilty pleasures, but he knew she'd best him at that game and leave him blushing. "We all need those."

She glanced over at him, eyebrows raised. He understood exactly where he'd gone wrong, and was in desperate need of a way out, before he ended up an awkward, stuttering mess. He gestured to the screen. "So these are films, then."

"Television shows." Her smile told him clearly she knew his game, and was merely allowing him to escape out of consideration for his delicate sensibilities. It was very embarrassing sometimes, spending time with this woman.

"They're like films," she continued, "but they come in episodes. So instead of a two-hour movie, there are, oh, perhaps twenty episodes, usually about an hour long, if they're dramas."

"I see."

She navigated the _computer_ with aplomb, something he had not yet managed to do. He did reasonably well at the _internet_ , though she said he was quite gullible when it came to dangerous websites. She had instated a rule against clicking on anything that flashed or tried to grab his attention. He found that rather frustrating, as those were exactly the things he most wanted to click on. But he trusted she had good reason for the rule.

Before the _episode_ started, she looked over at him. "Give it a chance. And keep your opinions to yourself. This is excellent breakup television." Then, more to herself than him, she continued, "I might just watch all the sad episodes. Crying can be cathartic."

"Personally, I prefer the idea of starting from the beginning." He tried very hard not to show exactly how terrifying he found the idea of her crying.

"Ok," she said. But she didn't start the episode. She was silent for a long moment. "Why do I miss him?" she asked, still staring straight ahead. "It wasn't as if we were good together. We hadn't been in a long time. Maybe we never were."

"I don't think the brain works that way, exactly," he said, trying to figure out what words she needed. "Or the heart, if you prefer. Feelings aren't rational. We can still be attached to things that are terrible for us."

Now she turned to face him. Sad, but not crying, which was some relief. "It's like I don't know . . . like I don't know how to be, without him. Not that I can't go on. None of that rubbish. It's just that I've forgotten how it was before. How I was before."

"I imagine it takes time."

"I'm still angry with him."

He paused, uncertain. Then, wincing at how awkward it felt, covered her hand. "You don't have to be, you know. Not on my behalf, at any rate. I've done my fair share of putting other people in danger."

"It's not about you. I mean, yes, you're a friend, and I'd be furious if _anyone_ hurt you, let alone someone I should be able to trust. But that isn't what it's about. It's about him, what he did, all of it. Following me. Going to the Prophet about you. The restaurant. I'm absolutely furious. He could be so much better, so much more, and he just . . ." Her eyes were wet when she looked at him. "That part, the anger, makes sense to me. But missing him . . . I didn't, in the beginning, I didn't miss him. We were always fighting, and I was so relieved to be away, to be through with that. But now . . . Sometimes when I'm alone . . . It's a Saturday night. I should be out doing something. But my favorite nights were always when we stayed in, just the two of us, and just talked . . . or late mornings when neither of us wanted to get out of bed or . . . I don't know. Brushing our teeth. I miss brushing my teeth with him." She swiped at tears. "God, I feel ridiculous. What a stupid thing to miss."

"It's not stupid." He looked out at the library. Once upon a time, it had been his mother's refuge. She had loved to read. Now he had to wonder how often those books had been muggle literature disguised as wizarding authors. "When I was very small, I asked my mother how butterflies got to be so colorful." He glanced over at her, embarrassed. "I quite liked butterflies, though I had the sense never to mention it to my father." She smiled at that. He'd known she would, which was the only reason he'd told her. He'd never told anyone that.

"My mother made up this whole story about how when the sun comes up, the butterflies, all bland and drab, fly straight towards it, and all the beautiful colors in the sky drip down on them like paint." He looked around at all the windows. His mother had added so many of them. He often wondered how much she sat in this room and dreamed of being elsewhere. "All of the things she did, all of the people she hurt, and I still think of that every time I see a butterfly." He smiled at her, aware that his own eyes were damp now. "I think perhaps it's ok to miss the good things."

She nodded and, drawing in a shaky breath, leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm really glad we're friends." She took another slow breath. He could feel her shift with it, wasn't sure if he was supposed to put his arm around her or not. "I think you might actually be good for me."

He leaned his head into hers. "I hope so. Though I would never dream of trying to compete with your _comfort_ _shows_."

He couldn't tell if she was smiling or not, but when she spoke, it sounded like she might have been. "It's good to know our limitations."

* * *

 _A/N Thanks as always for the reviews. It's really nice to see how people reacted to the previous chapter while I'm trying to sort out the next few._


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